


Like The Shoreline And The Sea

by hihoplastic



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-26
Updated: 2010-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-07 14:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wind cuts against your cheek and you think about sunrise; the fog burning off; the look on his face you can read so clearly (stay).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like The Shoreline And The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> \- for @lj mylittleredgirl, from her prompt _she loves him except_ ; the return part i-based  
> \- title from leonard cohen's _hey, now that's no way to say goodbye._  
> \- thanks to @lj anuna_81 for the read-through and encouragement.  
> \- [original post](http://community.livejournal.com/sail_your_sea/18299.html#cutid1)

There is ice outside, and you think, for a brief moment, about turning around - going back through the old wood doorway, across the cheap carpet that smells like dust and stale perfume; you imagine your clothes as a breadcrumb trail - shoes by the door, scarf on the coffee table, gloves on the arm of the couch, coat on the chair; sweater, shirt and jeans like stepping stones through the narrow hallway. There will be warmth - soft sheets against your bare legs and the indented pillow that smells like him and his hands, instinctively seeking out your skin; his nose buried in your hair.

The wind cuts against your cheek and you think about sunrise; the fog burning off; the look on his face you can read so clearly (_stay_). 

A dog barks. 

A shiver runs down your spine. 

The door behind you is still open, still inviting; the latch hasn't clicked. You hesitate, and wish that he would wake up, come after you, stop you, hold you, never, ever let go of - 

In the bitter dark, a truck door slams. The dog barks again. The house is silent.

You close your eyes, and delay a moment longer. (You can't keep yourself there, but maybe he could. _Maybe_, a voice intones, _he doesn't want to_, and suddenly you imagine him awake, eyes bright in the dark, waiting for the door to close; a sigh of relief.) 

The knot in your chest coils tighter, and you force yourself to take measured breaths. The air freezes along your throat.

_Go_, you whisper, cold lips swallowing the sound. 

Of its own volition, your elbow bends, tugging at your fingers wrapped around the door knob. The lock clicks. You exhale, and make your way down the walk. One step, two, three, four. The ice cracks under your feet, a tinny accompaniment to your shallow, measured breaths.

Your car is covered in snow, and you wipe the windows with a shaky arm. Your coat gets wet. Your hands freeze through the gloves. You aren't used to this, not yet - in your mind, it is spring. Cool breezes and the sun-warmed railing under your palms. The light through the stained-glass makes patterns on your floor, and you can see the spires from your window, your bedroom, your home. 

The porch light clicks on, and you still. 

There's a long, aching pause. Silence. You stand straight, but can't bring yourself to turn around. If it's him, then there's shame; if it's not, there's hopelessness. You aren't sure which is worse; which would damage you more than you already are. 

''Lizabeth?'

His voice is too warm for the night air, and you flinch. The streetlamp casts your shadow on the hood of your car, and you stare at your elongated figure, black and stretched out and awkward. You wonder what he sees in you, in this mess of a person you've become. 

He calls your name again and you shift, glancing over your shoulder before fixating on the car keys in your hand. 

He is barefoot. In sweatpants and a coat he grabbed by the door, wearing a confused, wounded expression that haunts you no matter how briefly you look at it. 

You want to tell him to go back inside. To stop looking at you and following you and _being with you_ for reasons you can't discern. You want him to give up on you, and at the same time the thought petrifies you, keeps you rooted to the base of your shadow, keeps you repeating the same motions over and over again; keeps you leaving. 

John stands barefoot on the porch and watches you. Like always, he waits. Watches you and waits and you don't want to decide anymore; don't want to choose between stay and go. You want him to _make_ you stay, make you leave for good; you want him to bring you back but you aren't sure if he can and you can't bear to ask, can't burden him any more than you already have. 

You should get in the car. You should get in the car and drive far, far away and not come back, ever. You should go back inside, back into John's warm apartment and warm bed and warm arms and just stay there and let him fix you like you sometimes think he wants to. 

You should do all kinds of things and instead you stand, frozen, shivering. You hesitate, then raise your head. He's gone. You panic - your heart skips and your mind goes numb and then he steps out of the apartment and closes the door. You watch him as he makes his way down the steps, across the sidewalk, to the curb, and stops in front of you. He's wearing shoes. No socks. He's holding a coat, another of his, which he wraps around your shoulders, holding the collar in his hands as he moves closer. You want to look away, but his eyes are shining in the dull light and you can feel the tops of his fingers pressing against your breastbone, in the gap between your scarf and your unbuttoned coat. 

'There,' he murmurs. Your eyes widen, but he just looks at you, lips quirked ever-so-slightly in the beginnings of an understanding smile. You try to speak, but your lips are dry and cold and your throat is tight from taking little gulps of air. 

You don't realize you're crying until he reaches out, smudging the tear into your cheek. Cold air on hot water and you feel like your skin is going to crack and peel and all he'll be left with is dust, tinged with salt. 

'John,' you manage, at the same time he presses his forehead to yours.

'Don't go.' 

His palms cup your cheeks, fingers curled slightly against your jaw. 

You close your eyes. 'I-' 

'_Please._' 

It's only then that you realize he's shaking, too. 

You've never seen him scared - have only ever witnessed the recovery, the aftermath. Dark eyes that bore into you just a second too long, and then look away, stay away, avoid. 

He isn't avoiding now, and when you shift just slightly he follows, tightens his grip and exhales. 

What you mean to say is _Don't_, but what comes out is a strangled plea: 'I don't know how.' 

John steps back slowly, carefully, and raises his eyes to meet yours. His hands soften, then trail down your face, your neck, hesitating at the collar of the extra coat before continuing down your arms to your hands. Even through the gloves, you can feel how gentle he is, how careful - as if too much pressure might break you.

Without letting go, he takes one step back. Then another. Then another, until you're left with the choice to either let go or follow and you can't. It's too much, too fast, too slow, too heavy. You love him except for the weight that buries you; the look on his face that makes you think he might stop breathing if he ever had to let go. 

'Don't,' you whisper, but what you mean this time is _don't make me choose_. And so he pulls - a gentle tug at your wrist that brings you forward one step, two, three, until you're close enough to see his smile, beautiful in its insecurity. Part of you wants to drive it away and part of you relishes in the knowledge that you aren't alone in your fears; that he's still there, still haunted; that it wasn't a dream, even the sadness. 

'Lizabeth?' Your name is warm air against your cheek, and you nod slowly, an attempted smile fading from your lips. John squeezes your hand and begins to walk - one step, two, three, four - up the steps to the door. He holds your hand as the knob turns; as the warm air melts the snow to water in your hair; he holds your hand as you cross the threshold; as he locks the door; as he brushes white dust from your shoulder. He toes off his shoes and takes your coats and hangs them on a hook. You watch each movement, each flex of the muscles in his arms, his chest - he isn't wearing a shirt, or socks, and he shivers slightly and grins and shrugs and you love him for this, for these little moments that so easily could have been lost. 

_John_, you try, but it's silent; a stilted motion that he catches nonetheless. 

_I know_, he replies, with his lips against your cold skin. As if you're a child, he tugs off your gloves and scarf and drapes them over the couch. Your clothes don't make a path, but rather a point at the destination, pooling at the foot of his bed. You don't remember moving, just the feel of his hands under your sweater, lifting, undressing you between kisses, leaving nothing but warm tenderness in his wake. 

'John,' you manage. Your hands land on his chest and he shivers at the contact. You want to make sure he knows; understands that despite appearances, you aren't using him for heat or distraction. You need him to see that you're _trying_, that you'll be okay, that it won't be like this forever; you need to know if he loves that woman too, the resemblance you'll become once the pieces are back in place. Not whole, but no longer broken. 

The worry is the same. His eyes are bright in the darkness, but you can see the shadow they wear, the thin line between them as he tries to read between your silences. It terrifies you, that expression - not its presence, but its absence; if he ever stopped looking at you like you're part of his everything. 

You look down at your hands, thin and pale and flat against his chest. You can feel his palms against your spine, dragging up to cup your shoulder blades and press you closer. 'It's okay,' he murmurs. 'It'll be okay.'

You nod, exhale shakily, and kiss him - light at first and then demanding, begging him unfairly to give you all of him; he yields without question, arms tightening and mouth opening and your hands slide up to frame his face, to deny him the right to pull away; to leave you. 'Liz'beth,' he murmurs, a gasp for air, but you don't let go, can't, even as he coaxes your lips into a gentle, reassuring touch. 'It's okay,' he says again. Then: 'We'll be okay.' 

'I-' Your voice cracks and he shakes his head. 

'Tomorrow,' he promises, though you both know you won't - morning is too bright for unspokens. But he smiles and kisses you and tugs you under the covers after him, cocooning you in blankets and arms and tangled legs, and his nose buried in your hair.

*

© 02/2010


End file.
